не работает — it doesn’t work

“That’s the end”, I thought, as the taxi driver got out of the highway to a small road completely covered with muddy snow. A dark November night in Moscow, earlier than 8am. A blasting “I’m an idiot” crossed my mind as I realized that my mistake could be bad.

I had just landed in Domodedovo airport at 6am in a red-eye flight from Madrid. Crossed the border in a hurry, surprisingly fast, after shaking off a big Armenian guy asking for my support to pass some bottles of liquor to the other side. Still sleepy, but you get used to mechanically go through airports and borders if you fly enough.

The freezing air hit me when I walked out of the terminal building. Had a taxi line quite close so made my way straight to the pickup area, dragging my trolley. A driver came out of the car and waved his hands to energetically invite me to get in.

I stopped and asked: “Do you get credit cards?”.

He stared at me, I insisted loud and slowly: “No. Money. Credit? Cards?”.

He replied: “Da, da, da”, and gesticulated again with his hands in the air, “pushing” me in and opening the trunk. After dropping the trolley in, I entered the taxi and the run started. “Every cab driver speaks some English words”, I thought.

I felt immersed in an oneiric feeling, sleepy in a taxi speeding along a large and empty highway, the black and white picture of a snowy night. Some houses in the distance. Regularly placed dim and yellow streetlights. My brains scouting around for something to learn about Russia. Still nothing interesting to see.

The guy started to talk to me, in Russian. Fast, loud. I didn’t get a word.

I asked: “English?”

More Russian chat. Shit.

“French? Italian? Spanish? German?”. Languages I don’t speak but I know enough words to manage a conversation with a taxi driver.

He apparently loves the fact that I am replying, so his conversation in Russian gets faster and happier. Not idea about what does he have in his mind. Not sure if he is just chitchatting or there is anything important I should know. Feels surreal.

And then I remember… I have no local cash. Ouch.

How to communicate? Then take my wallet, get the American Express out - that universal symbol- and place it within his field of sight through the rearview mirror. His face changes, his chatter abruptly stops.

“Niet, niet, niet”… some more gabble… “Niet, niet”. You can see he is angry. Looks at me through the mirror. He obviously can’t understand how I can be such an idiot.

I insult him in English and then in Spanish. Bold words. “I asked you”, and then try a dozen ways to ask for an automatic bank teller. “A T M!”.

But he can’t understand me. He loses focus on the road and the car slowly drifts to the center of the empty highway a few times and each time he fixes course back to the lane with a harsh move of the wheel.

After some time of bitter Russian sounds and then he asks: “Bancomat? Bancomat?”

Oh, my. Finally. The word.

I smile: “Da. Bancomat. Da. Bancomat”. He asks some question. I just can insist: “Bancomat. Bancomat”. Show him my thumb up.

The car speeds up, the driver is no longer talking. At some point the car abruptly slows down and steers right to what seems just another pile of snow on the side. I can see the start of a little driveway. No lights, so we are heading to a dark empty field. I really thought I was over as the car suspension bounced over the snowy irregular pavement.

The taxi turned a couple of corners and to my tranquility the green lights of a gas station showed up in the way. After driving to the shop entrance, the taxi driver turned around, pointed inside, and said: “Bancomat”. Hid my relief, clumsily pronounced “spassiva” and walked in.

Could have been this gas station

The ATM is right there at the entrance. I take a quick glance inside the store, which seems pretty much the same as any gas station store anywhere else. There are some shelfs with all kinds of items. Tidy and clean. At the other end, I see a glass counter with two ladies in a green uniform selling bread and pastries.

Turn around to the ATM sitting beside the entrance. VISA, Mastercard signs. Not feeling very safe, pick the card that would have enough money but not much. I put it in. Change language to English. Click the pin code in the screen.

Screen is frozen.

“No, please”, think to myself. Neither screen buttons nor mechanical buttons on the side give me any feedback. Frustrated, I beat the machine with my fist. Nothing. It’s dead. Sigh.

Click again. No hope. Close my eyes. Deep breath. Very deep breath.

Turn around and walk closer to the bread counter — but not allowing too much distance to the ATM and wave my hands to call ladies’ attention. They must have noticed but don’t look my direction.

I speak loud: “Sorry! Sorry!”. No response.

“Help. Bancomat. Bancomat. Help”. Nothing.

Again, I start speaking words in any language I know. Everyone in the world tend to smile when recognizing a word in a language she has studied: “English!… Française!… Italiano!… Deutsch!… Portugues!… ”.

Not my lucky day. They won’t move out of the counter. “Bancomat, help!”. Frustration, but I must do something. Come back to the ATM. Frozen.

Come back closer to the attendants. Shout: “Help!”. Every person in the gas station turns around to look at me. I shout again: “Bancomat, help!”.

Then the older attendant finally answers: “не работает”. She doesn’t move.

I ask her with my hands to come and help. She softly shakes her head. “не работает”. For some reason I trust her, but I don’t know what she is saying or why. I noticed she repeated the same words. Sounds like “Nye-ra-botet”.

And then she insists: “Bancomat nye ra botet… Bancomat nye ra botet”.

My head finally find sense. “Bancomat” is ATM, “nye” sounds like “don’t”, “rabotet” must be “work”. Or something.

I find it very natural that the ATM is broken when you need it the most. Weird enough, I feel even comforted that the world sits in its place. I can easily imagine a Russian stranded in a gas station close to Barajas airport in Madrid, and the situation could have been quite similar.

A smile finds its way to my face, and I answer… “Aaaah… Bancomat… nye rabotet” while expressively moving my hands like a basketball referee would indicate “it’s over”. (Russians play basket). Then the older Russian lady shows a small smile and complicity in her eyes, nodding. They don’t do nonverbal language, but for sure they understand mine. And insist: “Bancomat nye rabotet”. I nod and answer “Spassiva. Goodbye”.

During this brief time, nobody tried to use the ATM (I was taking quick glances from time to time as I learnt to do when I was growing up to ensure nobody takes your bag in the school’s patio), so my card is still in there. The ATM is still frozen. Not sure what to do, I hit it hard on the side. Then try some buttons. Nothing. Sigh. Then I click on the cancel button again, repeatedly.

It works. Cancels everything, back to home screen, the card is expelled. I stare at it. Now I am not sure if I made it wrong all this time, but I don’t want to try again to avoid the risk of starting over. Scratch my head, pick the card, get my ass off this gas station.

My friend the taxi driver is awaiting me standing out of the car. I look at him, shake my head and say: “банкомат не работает”. He nods, suddenly sympathetic. And he asks me: “другой банкомат?”. So I reply: “Da. Bancomat… Bancomat”.

We moved on, found another ATM, got the cash, reached my hotel in Tverskaya St. and had a few fabulous business days with the Russian team, letting one of the marquee deals with Akamai set up for closing shortly afterwards.

…

Two days later we arrived to a customer office for a visit after a gorgeous walk across the streets of snowy Moscow. We reached the elevator. I clicked the button impatiently, turned around to my Russian colleagues and showed faked frustration, surprising them with a harsh: “не работает”.

We were still laughing when we reached the customer’s meeting room…