Forget the Estonian Nokia. What we ought to be searching for is the Estonian Rovaniemi. I bow deeply to any town in the world which can convince tourists to visit by advertising cold and darkness.
I first heard about Rovaniemi in 1992. A Canadian family living in Tartu decided to spend their Christmas there, and so they drove northward to show their eight-year-old child, Charlie, the home of Santa Claus. Upon their return, they invited me over for dinner and for what has long been prohibited by the United Nations Convention Against Torture: the amateur vacation video.
For the two-hour duration of the footage, the screen remained pitch black except for the occasional trace of a street lamp or car lights. Sledding on Santa’s mountain? Pitch black. Walking through downtown Rovaniemi? Pitch black. Visiting Santa’s village and little Charlie taking a seat on the Big Man’s lap? Pitch black.
While I went for frequent refills from the wine bottle in the kitchen, they remained glued to the screen. “Remember that, honey?” the wife shrieked. “Oh, yes, dear,” the husband echoed. “That’s Charlie coming down the mountain now!”
I was baffled. Had this family been drugged by the Finns? There was nothing interesting at all about Rovaniemi—or their video—but they were as hooked as heroin addicts.
Even now, having finally visited Rovaniemi myself, I don’t understand the phenomenon. But I do understand that, if only for the sake of our economy, Estonia should have one, too. We’ve got dark. We’ve got cold and wet. What’s stopping us from having our very own Rovaniemi?
My first thought was that we should simply steal the town. Estonia could hire a public relations firm to circulate the rumor that Santa has decided to relocate to Valga or Otepää. After some thought I realized this would be too easily exposed as Eastern European treachery. Better to kidnap the man, blame it on the Latvians, and arrange it so Santa is liberated by Estonians somewhere near Otepää. Having seen both towns, I’m willing to bet that, all other things equal, Santa will by far prefer Otepää over Rovaniemi. If not, we could line Santa’s pockets with unspent EU developmental funds to ensure he sticks around. Then it’s only a matter of buying some reindeer and letting them roam the streets as thick as rats in an Old Town sewer. Our own little Santa Claus village would be complete.
But my conscience got to bothering me. What I like to think separates Estonia from Eastern Europe is its dignity. Estonians walk taller, talk straighter, and, in my estimation, live in a higher orbit than the rest of the region. Estonia doesn’t need a dirty trick. We don’t need to scare the crap out of the world’s children by kidnapping Santa. Forget the kids: let’s scare the crap out of the adults.
He may not recall it, but some years ago Mart Laar, while taking part in a panel discussion hosted by a now-defunct English-language magazine, came up with the idea that Estonia should have its very own Soviet Horror Park. Laar has always been a man ahead of his time in his vision for Estonia.
Personally, I see twenty hectares of horror.
Once my prototypical Canadian family has bought their tickets from the gate attendant, they’ll be stopped ten meters inside the park by an unshaven miilits wearing an untucked shirt and on his head a forashka as big as a serving tray. “Sure you bought tickets,” he’ll tell the still-smiling Canadians, “but you didn’t get them from me.” So Karl Kanada will dig in his pocket for a few bills to ensure his family gets to see the attractions. In some cases, the family’s car will be searched, the father’s porn magazines and children’s walkie-talkies confiscated. Alcohol will be removed (to be later resold in the gift shop or consumed by park employees) and a further fine levied on family members who neglected to purchase the park’s special health insurance which was recommended to them at the gate, the policy which guarantees foreigners the “same fine quality of medical care available to citizens of the Soviet Union.” (Incidentally, the park will house a small hospital where the only forms of accepted payment will be Levi’s jeans and live chickens.)
By this time, Karl Kanada and his family will be extremely thirsty and will descend on the park’s canteen, marked by a sign reading ресторан, at least half of the neon letters burned out. Karl will bribe the doorman, and once inside the family will spend hours deciphering the menu, finally realizing the restaurant has nothing on hand but pelmeni—and only fried pelmeni at that.
Exhausted, his hard currency nearly gone, Karl Kanada will take his family to the Intourist Hotel, where he’ll be charged the foreigners’ rate for a spartan room with no hot water and sheets a half meter too short for the bed. His key will be attached to a boat anchor and tended to by a dezhurnaya, who he will also need to bribe if he wants the family’s sweaty clothes returned by the hotel’s laundry service.
Sometime during the middle of the night, a knock will come at the door, and the family will be given ten minutes to pack and whisked down a back staircase into a waiting UAZ truck, then off to the park’s train station where a cattle car awaits. “Wait, there must be some mistake!” Karl will wail. But the guard will turn a deaf ear until Karl removes his Rolex, his leather shoes, his wife’s western brassiere, and anything else of value the family is carrying. Early in the morning, the family will return to their hotel on foot, to find their car stolen. “You only bought health insurance,” the desk clerk will inform them. “You should have bought the auto insurance.”
The deportation, being in such obvious bad taste, might be replaced by guests being rousted from their beds to be lightly beaten, then forced to sign a confession and inform on a neighbor—or, in cases of leniency, simply forced to write a postcard to their neighbors about the wonderful time they’re having.
To me, it’s a natural idea. It may not be exactly what Mr. Laar had in mind (I never had a chance to ask him), but it would certainly be one hell of a park. Educational for sure. Real family entertainment. The natural successor to reality television.
Vello, some will cry, you’ve stooped to a new low! How dare you make light such a serious subject? I answer this way: Estonia can continue the frustrating search for its Nokia—or seksikat produkti, as Mr. Ansip was quoted calling them in Äripäev—which it possibly won’t find while anybody reading this is still alive. Or, it can take advantage of that which is right under its very nose. It isn’t pretty, but it would be authentic. And thanks to Hollywood, with the West thinking that the Soviet Union was all about Bond and “Goldeneye grotesque,” Estonia might be doing the world a service by setting things straight.
But there’s Solzhenitsyn, Edward Lucas, and Anne Applebaum! a reader will protest. People know the crimes of the Soviet Union! No, dear reader, they don’t. The masses don’t read books and never have. Bad television and theme parks are the communication tools of our time. If we want to change the popular conception of history, then we’ve got to do it with Disney. Or rather our own sick interpretation thereof.
***
Read it in Estonian in Postimees.
Showing posts with label Ansip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ansip. Show all posts
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Pick Up the Glove
Not a week goes by when I don’t notice Mayor Edgar Savisaar sounding off on the incompetence of Prime Minister Andrus Ansip. If it’s not on television, it’s in the papers. If it’s not Mr. Savisaar himself casting aspersions, it’s another Centre Party member. Often his own wife.
It may be that Mr. Ansip gives as good as he gets, but my impression is he seems to more often play defense. He seems to bear the criticism in silence or shrug it off, perhaps feeling he shouldn’t dignify it with a response. But I’d like to see the man stand up for himself. As few as one hundred years ago, Savisaar’s words would have been cause for a duel.
So why not now? In this economy, in the frame of mind the citizenry is in, settling this matter of honour is the very least the government owes us.
Victory or defeat, depending on whose side you like, will lie in the methodus pugnandi, the terms of the duel. Since Savisaar is the one doing the goading, etiquette calls for Ansip to throw down the glove and demand satisfaction. But if Ansip challenges, Savisaar sets the terms. And if you were Savisaar facing Ansip, what’s it going to be? Swords or pistols?
If it’s swords, I favor Andrus. He is fit and nimble from bicycling and skiing and will not exhaust quickly from lunging, parrying, and ripostes. Edgar, who is no fool, will favor pistols. Although Andrus’ fitness will give him a steadier hand and lower heart rate, Edgar is required only to stand firm and make one shot count. Something he’s done often in his political career.
Of course, it’s not limited to swords or pistols. In 1843, two men fought a duel by throwing billiard balls at each other. Others have used sledgehammers or forks. Abraham Lincoln, once challenged to a duel, chose to fight with cow dung (his challenger then declined and issued a public apology).
It’s time to bring back dueling, that wonderful, nine-hundred-year-old tradition. It was popular in the Baltic in the studentenverbingdungen or fraternities. A schmiss or mensur scar on the face was a mark of distinction for a Baltic noble. And politicians took part, too. Four British Prime Ministers fought duels (William Petty, William Pitt, George Canning, and Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington). The American president, Andrew Jackson, fought thirteen duels, though all before he became president.
I propose this coming Saturday. Dawn is the traditional dueling hour, as it’s free of interruptions. The field of honour? The grounds beneath the freedom monument, of course. What could be more fitting than armed combat under Estonia’s ten-million-dollar Balkenkreuz?
I recommend swords. This will serve to show the world that Mr. Savisaar is, in fact, a sporting man, and in the event of his victory, will leave less bitterness in the ranks of Mr. Ansip’s peers.
As for seconds, Mr. Savisaar should bring his wife. A natural second for Mr. Ansip would be Mart Kadastik. These are merely dramatic suggestions, and the duelists themselves will fill out their rosters. By tradition, three is the number of seconds for each party.
Of course, dueling etiquette of the Code Duello clearly forbids interclass battles. If Ansip or Savisaar is of a higher social class than the other, the duel may not be permitted. If that is the case, however, it is permissible under the Code for he of the higher class to beat the other with a cane. Or, if he finds that distasteful, he may order his servants to perform the task.
In all cases, my proposal will temporarily restore honour in Estonian politics and end the trading of insults and petty carping. And satisfaction shall be had. At least by the public.
***
Shameless commerce: Check out Vello's Book Club here.
It may be that Mr. Ansip gives as good as he gets, but my impression is he seems to more often play defense. He seems to bear the criticism in silence or shrug it off, perhaps feeling he shouldn’t dignify it with a response. But I’d like to see the man stand up for himself. As few as one hundred years ago, Savisaar’s words would have been cause for a duel.
So why not now? In this economy, in the frame of mind the citizenry is in, settling this matter of honour is the very least the government owes us.
Victory or defeat, depending on whose side you like, will lie in the methodus pugnandi, the terms of the duel. Since Savisaar is the one doing the goading, etiquette calls for Ansip to throw down the glove and demand satisfaction. But if Ansip challenges, Savisaar sets the terms. And if you were Savisaar facing Ansip, what’s it going to be? Swords or pistols?
If it’s swords, I favor Andrus. He is fit and nimble from bicycling and skiing and will not exhaust quickly from lunging, parrying, and ripostes. Edgar, who is no fool, will favor pistols. Although Andrus’ fitness will give him a steadier hand and lower heart rate, Edgar is required only to stand firm and make one shot count. Something he’s done often in his political career.
Of course, it’s not limited to swords or pistols. In 1843, two men fought a duel by throwing billiard balls at each other. Others have used sledgehammers or forks. Abraham Lincoln, once challenged to a duel, chose to fight with cow dung (his challenger then declined and issued a public apology).
It’s time to bring back dueling, that wonderful, nine-hundred-year-old tradition. It was popular in the Baltic in the studentenverbingdungen or fraternities. A schmiss or mensur scar on the face was a mark of distinction for a Baltic noble. And politicians took part, too. Four British Prime Ministers fought duels (William Petty, William Pitt, George Canning, and Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington). The American president, Andrew Jackson, fought thirteen duels, though all before he became president.
I propose this coming Saturday. Dawn is the traditional dueling hour, as it’s free of interruptions. The field of honour? The grounds beneath the freedom monument, of course. What could be more fitting than armed combat under Estonia’s ten-million-dollar Balkenkreuz?
I recommend swords. This will serve to show the world that Mr. Savisaar is, in fact, a sporting man, and in the event of his victory, will leave less bitterness in the ranks of Mr. Ansip’s peers.
As for seconds, Mr. Savisaar should bring his wife. A natural second for Mr. Ansip would be Mart Kadastik. These are merely dramatic suggestions, and the duelists themselves will fill out their rosters. By tradition, three is the number of seconds for each party.
Of course, dueling etiquette of the Code Duello clearly forbids interclass battles. If Ansip or Savisaar is of a higher social class than the other, the duel may not be permitted. If that is the case, however, it is permissible under the Code for he of the higher class to beat the other with a cane. Or, if he finds that distasteful, he may order his servants to perform the task.
In all cases, my proposal will temporarily restore honour in Estonian politics and end the trading of insults and petty carping. And satisfaction shall be had. At least by the public.
***
Shameless commerce: Check out Vello's Book Club here.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Under a Bridge with Mr. Ansip
There’s a tasteless tax joke circulating among expat businessmen: How do you recognize Estonian businessmen abroad? They’re the ones who’ve brought their own sandwiches.
I’ve been traveling lately and doing my best to live within the bounds set by the Estonian government: 500 kroons per day and an average hotel cost of 2,000 kroons per night. If you travel to major cities that’s not an easy task. To live on that amount often requires a night or two in youth hostels or sleeping under a bridge and looking for your food in dumpsters. I’ve often wondered how Estonian politicians do it. I’ve never seen a parliamentarian under my bridge.
Despite Estonia’s flat tax and zero levy on corporate earnings (minu müts maha), the rest of the program isn’t so hot. I sometimes feel as if government is trying to confine Estonian business to the minor leagues. World-class companies understand two things: they need to keep their employees both healthy and smart. Sick employees raise your expenses, and stupid ones reduce your revenue. All first-rate companies provide programs to keep their employees exercising, eating right, and constantly learning something new. But try that in Estonia and the company is stuck with a 75 percent fringe benefits tax.
Mr. Ansip, as I understand, defends the program by saying the rules are clear and they work, and therefore no change is called for. I’ll grant him the clear part, but I take issue with how well the system works.
I have a young Estonian friend (he’s 25) who is terribly frustrated because he sees few prospects of getting rich. As a teen, he witnessed the boom years of the Estonian economy where a lot of people made piles of dough. My friend complains about the small size of the market, the fact that people think small—a litany of things most of which I find tedious. But I find something hopeful in the fact that he is an impatient, greedy, over-confident young man of the sort you encounter in every capitalist country. He isn’t looking for a government handout and what little he remembers of the Soviet past comes through listening his parents. You can say you don’t like his priorities, but you have to admit he’s normal, as far as ambitious, greedy, business-school types go.
The kid often asks me for advice (why I’m not sure; I’m not rich and unlikely to ever be) and I always tell him the same thing: The rich westerners I know didn’t get that way by pursuing money; they were interested in something more, and they usually were passionate about something. I tell the kid he should decide what most lights his fire and throw himself at the feet of the best teacher he can find. “But then I’ll have to leave Estonia,” he says. He probably will. But if he really wants it, he shouldn’t complain. That’s how life is.
Sadly, though, I don’t see the Estonian government doing a hell of a lot to keep smart kids hanging around. At the most basic level, the government makes doing business in major markets inconvenient and expensive. And they don’t seem willing to lift a finger when private enterprise wants to do its part to keep the population both healthy and educated.
I’m sure there are ways around these rules, but I’m good at only a certain number of things and slikerdamine isn’t one of them. If Mr. Ansip truly worships the simplicity of the tax system, then he can surely empathize with someone who can’t be bothered to look for loopholes just so he can find a way to eat three square meals a day and stay in a decent hotel in Moscow.
Things will eventually change. They simply have to. Estonia’s frequent role model, Finland, has a system which seems perfectly normal. According to the Finnish tax office, expenses for an employee’s job-related graduate education are a deductible business expense for Finnish companies. And with regard to travel, the per diem allowance for a Finn in Moscow is, for example, 1,127 kroons. (A Finn in Estonia, by the way, is allowed 767 kroons per diem.) Hotel compensation for a Finn abroad is, not surprisingly, limited to the “amount shown on a receipt.”
The good news is that in every country most silly legislation is eventually amended or repealed. But until then, until the day inevitable reason and good sense set in, I’m waiting for you, Mr. Ansip. I’ve saved you a warm, dry spot underneath my favorite bridge.
I’ve been traveling lately and doing my best to live within the bounds set by the Estonian government: 500 kroons per day and an average hotel cost of 2,000 kroons per night. If you travel to major cities that’s not an easy task. To live on that amount often requires a night or two in youth hostels or sleeping under a bridge and looking for your food in dumpsters. I’ve often wondered how Estonian politicians do it. I’ve never seen a parliamentarian under my bridge.
Despite Estonia’s flat tax and zero levy on corporate earnings (minu müts maha), the rest of the program isn’t so hot. I sometimes feel as if government is trying to confine Estonian business to the minor leagues. World-class companies understand two things: they need to keep their employees both healthy and smart. Sick employees raise your expenses, and stupid ones reduce your revenue. All first-rate companies provide programs to keep their employees exercising, eating right, and constantly learning something new. But try that in Estonia and the company is stuck with a 75 percent fringe benefits tax.
Mr. Ansip, as I understand, defends the program by saying the rules are clear and they work, and therefore no change is called for. I’ll grant him the clear part, but I take issue with how well the system works.
I have a young Estonian friend (he’s 25) who is terribly frustrated because he sees few prospects of getting rich. As a teen, he witnessed the boom years of the Estonian economy where a lot of people made piles of dough. My friend complains about the small size of the market, the fact that people think small—a litany of things most of which I find tedious. But I find something hopeful in the fact that he is an impatient, greedy, over-confident young man of the sort you encounter in every capitalist country. He isn’t looking for a government handout and what little he remembers of the Soviet past comes through listening his parents. You can say you don’t like his priorities, but you have to admit he’s normal, as far as ambitious, greedy, business-school types go.
The kid often asks me for advice (why I’m not sure; I’m not rich and unlikely to ever be) and I always tell him the same thing: The rich westerners I know didn’t get that way by pursuing money; they were interested in something more, and they usually were passionate about something. I tell the kid he should decide what most lights his fire and throw himself at the feet of the best teacher he can find. “But then I’ll have to leave Estonia,” he says. He probably will. But if he really wants it, he shouldn’t complain. That’s how life is.
Sadly, though, I don’t see the Estonian government doing a hell of a lot to keep smart kids hanging around. At the most basic level, the government makes doing business in major markets inconvenient and expensive. And they don’t seem willing to lift a finger when private enterprise wants to do its part to keep the population both healthy and educated.
I’m sure there are ways around these rules, but I’m good at only a certain number of things and slikerdamine isn’t one of them. If Mr. Ansip truly worships the simplicity of the tax system, then he can surely empathize with someone who can’t be bothered to look for loopholes just so he can find a way to eat three square meals a day and stay in a decent hotel in Moscow.
Things will eventually change. They simply have to. Estonia’s frequent role model, Finland, has a system which seems perfectly normal. According to the Finnish tax office, expenses for an employee’s job-related graduate education are a deductible business expense for Finnish companies. And with regard to travel, the per diem allowance for a Finn in Moscow is, for example, 1,127 kroons. (A Finn in Estonia, by the way, is allowed 767 kroons per diem.) Hotel compensation for a Finn abroad is, not surprisingly, limited to the “amount shown on a receipt.”
The good news is that in every country most silly legislation is eventually amended or repealed. But until then, until the day inevitable reason and good sense set in, I’m waiting for you, Mr. Ansip. I’ve saved you a warm, dry spot underneath my favorite bridge.
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