Belarus, a day at the Dacha (in the countryside)

A Day at the Dacha

Dachas have always formed an exotic picture in my mind. They are the country houses of the city dwellers, but they are a far cry from Seal Harbor. The normal Dacha in the Belarussian countryside is a miniature farm. A small land holding in which to raise a few animals for food, and some vegetables to get you through the winter. I was lucky, not only did Tanya's family have this, but they also had a traditional Russian Sauna, called a Bania. As we drove through groves of cultivated pine and cedar trees, we came to a road that became more of a path, then it turned into a sheet of ice that was bordered by miniature homes that were the dachas. I was worried about the Mercedes as we drove closer to the cluster of dachas. Would he smash into a fence? After all, the sunlight was glistening on the ice, and looked as though it was a very slippery surface to be driving a Mercedes on. I was sure that I would not even walk on it yet alone drive on it. But we pulled up to a blue Dacha, and Sasha announced that we were there. It is just a 15 minute ride outside of Gomel, but to me, we were in a different world. The dachas border on a man made pond, and it was frozen over.

All of the Dachas seemed to be between one and four rooms in size. Our Dacha was a large one, with two bedrooms, a loft, a living room, a root cellar (funny story about that coming), a kitchen and a summer kitchen (this is in a breezeway that is connected to the building.) In the back yard were two other buildings the larger of the two was the Bania, and the smaller was the bathroom. (We call it an outhouse where I come from.)

I could not decide what was my favorite feature of the Dacha, either the Bania or the Pietch. Now, the Pietch is a central stove that is more like a tile furnace that sits in the center of the Dacha. It is the sole source of heat, and can be used for cooking. It is encased in tiles, and it emits heat evenly throughout all of the rooms that boarder it. In the living room, there is an indentation in the tiles, and it forms a bed. Tanya's father has put up a light and a bookshelf, and a curtain, so that you can cocoon yourself on the shelf, pull the curtain, and be in your own warm and snuggly space. You could even read a book there. (But all of the books are in Russian.)

Well, enough about what the dacha looks like. I know that you really want to hear what happens in the Bania. Well, let me prepare you, it is not a pretty picture. First, imagine me naked. And sweaty. Now that you have willed yourself to do that, imagine me not alone. No, you can't imagine it can you? I didn't think so. Well, the Bania is where you loose all inhibitions, get naked, and then in the sweltering heat, you get beaten with birch branches (good ones with the leaves dried and green). Yes, beaten... All over your body.... Yes, that's right, all over. Now, there is nothing kinky in this ritual, it is simply the age old tradition of getting clean. And Tanya's mother really whips the hell out of you. Meanwhile, in addition to pouring water on the hot stones, she pours beer too. It adds a sort of brewery type smell that I have been told is healthy. (They also eat salted fish.... Ok, so something in the room smelled like tuna!) (No really the eat salted fish!!!)

Well, after you have been beaten, and you have washed all of the dead leaves off your body, you run around naked outside. Yep, I did it, and it was in the daylight too! ( Did I mention that I am now engaged? Yes, there is a rule, if you see me naked in the daylight and you are a man between the ages of 15 and 85, you must marry me and lock me away. This is to save men in the future from this terrifying sight.)

Meanwhile, we had our Bania, and Tanya's mother wrapped me in a sheet, then we went into the Dacha and curled up in a snuggly bed and slept.


I woke after a few hours to sounds in the kitchen. As I fumbled to get dressed, and stumbled into the kitchen in my post Bania/nap haze. Seeing that the bedroom was unoccupied, Tanya's mother lost no time in pulling up a trap door in the floor and getting some provisions out to take home. This was the indoor root cellar and as Tanya and I stood over the gaping hole, and watched her mother climb down into the mine of food, Tanya told me a story about her childhood.

Now, I know that have waxed romantic about the closeness of the relationship that Tanya shares with her brother Kolya. And it is true, they are very close. But, as children, they terrorized each other. When Tanya was three, and her brother five or six, he felt the urge to push her into the root cellar. She was lucky that she landed on her mother's back, so no major damage was sustained. But I have been assured that this type of warfare has existed since childhood, and I have made it my duty to hear as many of these stories as I can. Just to debase this seemingly perfect relationship that these two have. (Smile. Do I detect a bit of the green eyes monster in my soul??? YES!)

Meanwhile, back to the present... Just before we went into the Bania, Tanya's mother cooked for us. (What a surprise!!!) We had a fresh egg omelet, and there was so much food, that I was obliged to feed the cat some of mine.

A word about the cat. His name is COT, which is, you got it, Russian for CAT! Of course, Tanya was looking for some type of surprise on my face when she told me the cat's name, but may I remind you that I once had a cat, and his name was Seeaytee (sound it out). Well, I thought that the cat and myself were best friends, after all, we had shared an omelet... But after I woke up that afternoon, and joined the rest of the people of the house in the living room, I felt obliged to pat my new found friend. He promptly started purring, rolled onto his back and attacked the shit out of my hand. I am writing this four weeks later, and I still have the scars. I tried in the beginning of the attack to hold my hand still as he dug and bit into it, hoping not to rip the flesh too much. But my tender, well steamed, post Bania flesh soon tore apart, and I pulled down my sleeve in shame and pain to cover the wounds.

I still like the cat, and pat him on occasion. I just use caution. Whenever I see him strategically rolling onto his back in order to get more scratching power, I judiciously kick him across the room. It has become our little sadistic game.

Miraculously, I was spared the drinking of vodka at the Bania. It seemed that after a couple of days, the novelty of me saying NO was wearing off, and no longer was it pushed so forcefully on me.

In darkness, we left the dacha. It was a 10-minute walk to the bus stop. Sasha had left hours ago while I was sleeping. And in the rising full moon over the Russian landscape, we traversed on the aforementioned sheets of ice. In short, it was beautiful, slippery and cold. Above all, it was DARK. Moon or no moon, I wished that I had a flashlight. Tanya and her mother knew the path by heart. I was the interloper. I followed at a distance, and prayed that I would not fall. As I listened to the darkness, I imagined Peter and the Wolf. Tchaikovsky must have seen countryside not unlike this, because the music fit the walk perfectly. I tried to remember the tunes as I plodded along. It seemed fitting. And I was told that it was wolves that I heard in the distance. (Do I look like I would believe anything that is told to me? Well, on a dark and starry night in the Russian countryside, I did. And as I write this, I have my reservations...)

We waited at the bus stop for quite a while. Although the service is fairly reliable, the timetable is not. You must arrive at the posted time in order to catch your bus, but more often than not, the bus will not arrive at the appointed time. We waited in the darkness. There was a man at the stop, also waiting. He smoked a cigarette that added a small glow to his profile, and we all looked at the masses of stars that were above us. I realized how little I know about astronomy, and I made a mental note to correct that lapse in my education. It was still pretty to look at even if we were not sure of what we were looking at...

Tanya and I had a great debate about a light that was illuminating the sky. I said that it was the lights of the city glowing in the distance, she said that it was the moon rising. She was right. But to justify myself, (and what is life without justification???) the lights of the city did glow, just not with such intensity as the moon. I still wonder what parallel we are at... I seem to remember Maine as being on the 43' I will look on a globe as soon as I find one.

The bus was late. True to form, by about 25 minutes, I think. And as we piled onto the Bus, the driver announced that this was actually the earlier bus, and it was more expensive that the later bus. So the man who had been waiting so much longer than we made a loud noise (it wasn't translated for me), and bolted off the bus. The cost was 8,000 rubles (.30 cents) the cheaper bus cost 5,000 rubles (.20 cents). He waited longer in the cold starry night for economical reasons. We quickly found our seats and continued the journey home.


"Hi Honey, We're Home!"

The bus ride was uneventful, and when we alighted at our stop, there was a walk through a maze of apartment buildings, past playgrounds that were shrouded in darkness, and very well work ice paths to our final destination. Home and chi. I had no sense of where we were walking to nor the direction in which we were traveling, I just knew that at some point, one of these concrete monsters of Stalinist architecture would be our final destination.

We came across our building from a direction that surprised me. I was totally wrong in my estimation of where we were to turn out. But once we were inside, and just outside the door, I yelled in my own subtle way (NOT) "Hi Honey, we're home!" (Who needs a doorbell when I am along?? That was to be my own catch phrase each time that we came to the door, I am not sure that the other people who live in the building appreciate my loud American accent echoing strange words through the stairway, but hey, who cares?)

Kolya opened the door anyway, and ushered us into the apartment. We took our bundles into the kitchen, and peeled off our coats, hats, and boots. We had left Tanya's brother alone with Butthead, and he was happy to see us.

That night, a technological phenomenon was about to take place in Gomel. I dusted off the laptop, and after showing the slide show of photographs that I have on disk, Tanya started to show her Brother the addictive game of solitaire. And so it started. My IBM became a very expensive Game boy, and all of the people in the Ageeva household were hooked on cyber solitaire. I laughed as I remembered the hours that I wasted playing games on my sister's computer in her kitchen.

As they took turns, and Butthead showed just how annoying he really was by trying to take over the computer. Not only was he stupid, but he was dangerous. I warned Tanya not to leave him alone with my computer, as not only was his personal hygiene in question, but he was forever trying to muck about with the function keys and the on off switch. (Can you tell by the spirit in which I write this that I hated him??? Well, just in case you couldn't tell, let me sate it for the record, he was one of the most disgusting and annoying scumbags that belong to the human species that I have ever had the inauspicious opportunity to observe.) To paint a mental picture, he only washed once every 11 days, weather he needed it or not. And even if this is a hygienically challenged country, by the local standards, he was odious. I think that the only times that he had ever laid eyes on a toothbrush was when they were shown on TV. But this asshole thought that he was modern, because he had a VCR. The more I write about him, the more incensed I get.

After a few hours of Solitaire, it was time to roll out the printer. And that was when my world started to fall apart. In my haste to pack when leaving London, I packed the wrong cable. I did not have a printer cable. And I knew with a heavy heart, that even though we planned to scour Gomel in the morning for a printer cable, my lifeline to the 20th century would not be found in the land of chest x-rays. I went to sleep that night with a heavy heart.


Monday 27 January 1997

In the morning, I woke up, and realized that this was not a dream. When I stumbled into the kitchen, there was Butthead, drinking OUR COFFEE. I quickly made myself a cup, and ran off to the bedroom, where I would be spared the sight of Butthead eating. As I sat assessing my situation, Kolya's girlfriend (well, the relationship has yet to be FORMALLY established, but the familiarity s there) Tanya and I went in search of a printer cable. We searched from kiosk to kiosk, then we hit the local shops. We took a short yet informative walk through the central Gomel Park. Formally, the park was an estate. (Pre revolution) and after Lenin and his buddies decided to make Gomel a city of Comrades, the lovely Georgian estate was turned into a hall for the local communist party. Tanya had her Pioneer ceremony there, as did every other youngster in town for the past 70 or so years of communist rule. The children who were awarded their Young Pioneer badges are the same children (now with children themselves) who are selling things in the market, and dreaming of a place where you can get a legal job that pays more than $30.00 per month. Yes, my dear western reader, the average wage here in the south of Belarus is $30.00 per month, and that is when you get paid. It is a good thing that the Trolley bus only costs 2000 rubles. (.10 cents)

Meanwhile, I forgot to talk about the park. There are new lampposts strewn about, and I am sure that in the spring they will be properly installed. Someone, somewhere has appropriated the money to refurbish the long neglected church that is a part of the park. There were plenty of workmen bustling around, and as I had never been inside an Orthodox Church, I asked if we could go inside. Tanya had never been inside one either. So, this was to be a first for both of us.

I have just read what I have written, and it seems to be a manifesto against communism, rather than the notes of a trip that I have taken. I have to stop and question this political tilt that I have added to what is essentially, a good friend bringing me home to meet the family. For Tanya, and most Belarussians, the fall of communism has hurt them, not helped them. Belarus was forced to stand on it's own economically after being in the Soviet Cradle for 70 years.


This has caused massive unemployment, inflation, fees for school that once was free, a lower standard of life, and a rapidly devaluing local currency. Once, the Ruble stood it's own against the dollar in a closed economy, now as of today the rate is 25,000 rubles to $1.00 When I started writing this, it was 23,000 : 1.

And now, Belarus and all of Russia has the unpleasant crime element of what we in the west call the Mafia. Organized Crime is reminiscent of the turn of the century American Agangs" culminating with the imprisonment of Al Capone. What we, (Americans) have been insulated from, and have had a chance to romanticized for the past 60 years is alive and growing in the former Soviet States. Organized crime here isn't what we watch on TV. It is the dead body of a man that was found next door the day before I arrived here. The man had known underworld connections, and a large amount of cash. In addition there were a few bullets in his lifeless body. The police did their part, they confiscated all of the money that they could find in the apartment. (which belonged to the dead man's mother) As I heard the story, I wondered how she could pay for the funeral? And this morning, as I stepped out of the building, I passed a woman with a baby in a pram in the hallway. One life ends in this new democratic world, and one life begins.

It is hard for me to differentiate between the parody of the Russian immigrant that I have grown up seeing. Propaganda in it's own right. How can I listen to Kolya's purposely accented English, when he greets me with "Hello my Friend"? I thought that he was serious, and I mistakenly pitied that way that he spoke. Then, after a few "almost" conversations with him, I realized that part of the Russian curriculum for every school child includes English, and the majority of people in my generation can communicate on a very basic level in English. And then there is me, a product of the American public School System. I am barely able to speak my own language, let alone that of another person.

As I sit typing away on American technology (made in Japan) I am proud to quote Daniel Webster, (himself a master at words) "For I was born an American, I shall live as an American, and I shall die as an American". Never have I felt so much a part of a society as I have when I am away from it. I carry with me not just a backpack and things, but thirty years of idealism, and patriotism. I just hope that I have learned not impose my ideology on those who do not share the same opportunities, influences, and memories as I. It is a birthright that I should cherish.

Tanya read the first 10 or 11 pages of what I have written and simply said, "You see things differently that I do."

Meanwhile, back at the church! As we were walking through the trees and past benches that are universally present in every self respecting park, we saw a miniature version of St. Basil's in Moscow. At least that was it seemed like to me, it was a colorful mosaic infested onion topped chapel. Tanya read the inscription, and it was the burial chapel for the family who had built and lived on the estate. I was happy to see that this little gem of death had survived the communist winters. I said a silent Thank You to the family whose lands were now a place for me to stroll through and look at a bit of nature in a city that is encased in concrete.

The three of us turned and walked to find the entrance of the church. There were people bustling around, and there was quite a bit of machinery in what I took for a parking lot. As we turned to the gates, there was a drunken beggar. It reminded me of the Bible stories of the beggars out side of the temples, and fittingly, without any prompting, Tanya opened her purse and gave him a few notes. I smiled when I realized that she did it out of the goodness of her heart. Because she has never heard the stories of the beggars outside of the church. Just after the warmth escaped my heart when I saw that the church had set up a gift shop outside of the entrance. I laughed, and credited the Russian free enterprise system. After all, what do our televangelists do? All's fair when it is done using God's name, right ???

We climbed the steps into the church, and after we went through the first doorway, it seemed as if we were walking into darkness. As we opened the second door, we were amazed at the sight that was in front of us. I took a deep breath, and stepped back in admiration. There before us was an even bigger gift shop than the one inside. And busy scurrying about like little mice were some babushkas fresh off the trolley bus. They were cleaning the Church and minding the store all at the same time! Talk about economy of time!

We walked around, and were underwhelmed. It was obvious that the once ornate Orthodox Church was still in need of re gilding. But I could see that progress was being made. It was my first time in a church where there are no seats. I immediately felt sorry for all who worshiped there, for as far as I am concerned, the seating is one of the more important factors to consider when attending any church service.

We circled our way around the church, and quietly left the building. As we passed other people in the park, a middle aged man asked Svetlana if she had just been at church. We got the giggles. (well, I got the giggles, after what he said had been translated for me.) I said that we were just doing a bit of shopping. Svetlana quietly pulled some sunflower seeds out of her pocket, and chewed as we walked into Lenin Square, back to the hustle and bustle of the city.

We came back through the city and had yet another memorable trip on the trolley bus. At home, we ate again, and hung out. The television is green, but the scene is the same all over the world.

When we got home, we saw that Sasha had dropped off is wallet, which is considerable, as that it was a hockey bag filled with $40,000.00 Cash. It was in Rubles, and it was so heavy that I couldn't lift it. Tanya's mother couldn't sleep at night, because she was freaked about having all of that money in the house. Along with two students and a very strange American...

Bevis and Butthead had rented the film Independence Day. I watched it in dubbed Russian, and with green tint. It was a first for me, and probably a last too. Tanya and I shared her parents bed that night, because hopefully we would be going to Minsk the next day. If Sasha would come through with a ride.


Tuesday 28 January

Waking up for me in the morning is an experience, in the apartment, there are six people and one bathroom. On top of that, there is no place to be alone and quiet. So, generally after waking up, I would go to the bathroom, (careful not to turn on the wrong light), and then I would go back to bed. The worst feeling is to try to use another woman's kitchen, when you can't speak to them and have them understand you. All of the time that I have been in Gomel, Tanya's mother has tried to feed me. (More on that later!) When all that I want in the morning is a cup of coffee and some quiet time to think about my day. Tanya and I got our act together, and we ate the Kasha that was put in front of us. Kolya offered to let us take a picture of what he was eating. He didn't even eat from a bowl, it was more like a troth. (Actually, it was a frying pan.)

After waiting hours for a call from Sasha, we realized that he was going to disappoint us. We had another day in Gomel, and we decided to take the over night train to Minsk the next day. So I did some laundry (in the bathtub) and Tanya played some more solitaire. Then her Brother played some solitaire, and when Bevis and Butthead returned, they too, sat around the lap top and dreamed of their chance to play solitaire. I watched them all and felt so foreign. It was starting to dawn on me that although we all belong to the same species of animal, I was an outsider. Butthead tried to impress Tanya by speaking English. But I couldn't understand what he was saying, and she had to interpret it for me. So much for his speaking English. I just hoped that I didn't sound so stupid as he when I tried to speak Russian. So, I smiled, and read my books. For the first time in my life, I couldn't figure out how to use the phone. I wanted to call London that night. My excuse was that I needed more information about Nossum, but I think that deep down, I just needed a connection with the outside world. But with all of my efforts, nothing came out of it. And the phone didn't get a chance to relay English conversation that night. With that minor communication failure tucked under my belt, we went to sleep. There was a trip to Minsk on the horizon, and thoughts of life in a foreign land running through my mind.


Wednesday 29 January

Early in the morning, I heard a loud banging noise. As I shook my head out of it's grogginess, I recognized the sound. Then I looked at my watch and I felt my blood begin to boil. It was 7:15 in the morning, and Butthead was stirring MY coffee and clanging the spoon around in the teacup as if he were ringing a bell to come to dinner. I weighed the thought of getting up and shoving the spoon down his throat, but I realized that it would just appear to be another American Psycho on the rampage. I rolled over in bed and began to hate him even more. It was an unusual phenomenon that was happening in Russia. With my inability to communicate (except via Tanya who sometimes severely edited my comments) Butthead thought that I was just shy. I didn't stay in the same room with him, because I was a woman, and he was such a man. Well, that can go down in history, if nothing else. Russia is a country that thinks I am shy. I try to laugh as I write this, but I just end up scoffing. It bothers me that someone does not know that they are despised by me. It takes all of the power out of hating someone, or even something, if they remain blissfully unaware. This has taught me a lesson.

After we finally got out of bed, and ate breakfast, Tanya and I went back to the bedroom. Her Mother had been pulling a lot of things out of her drawers, they were pictures. It was my introduction to the faces of Tanya's past. I looked at the people and places set before me, and tried to memorize the looks on their faces. I saw pictures of Communist gatherings, old school photos and what seemed to be an inordinate amount of photos of Kolya.

The family seemed to be suffering from a Kolya fever, and I am ashamed to say that I caught it too. In looking at all of the pictures of him from a child sitting on a chamber pot to a boy in an army uniform, I felt that he had permeated the communications barrier, and I allowed him into my thoughts. It is not unlike a virus taking over a cell, now that I have reflected on this Kolya fever. But it soon passes, and he gets firmly established in everyone's life as an all around good guy (who still watches cartoons).

Tanya had the same aloof look on her face as she has now. And there are far fewer photos of her than there are of her older brother. As far as the two oldest boys (Sasha and Wuva)are concerned, in my mind, they were frozen in time as children. After seeing the photos of them as children, and virtually none of them as adults, it is as if they are a different set of people, not Husbands and Fathers as they are now.

It was while we were looking at photos that Tanya's mother brought us a paper. It was a letter that had been written in the fall of last year (1996). And as I looked at it, I was told the story of her father, and her search for his grave.

W.W.II took Russia by surprise. And with that surprise, it also took 25% of the population of Belarus. That is one in four people. No family remained complete during the years of devastation. Vera, (Tanya's mother) lost her father. He was a Soviet soldier. One day, she received a letter saying that he had died while fighting in Poland. That was it, no body to bury, no face to say good bye to. She doesn't even have a photo of him. What she does have is a series of correspondence beginning in the 1940's, a yellowed sheet telling her that it is time to mourn. And a reply from the government in 1996 saying that they have no record of his death, or even a mass grave that he may be in. She has no final place to lay the memory of her father, but a drawer in her bedroom. With the hope that some day, she may find where he was laid to rest.

She looked at us, with our fancy charts, and our hopes and expectations, and wondered how we could find a man who died in 1911. When she couldn't find a man who died 30 years after. I respected her even more after that morning. And I had a bit of a reality slap.

All of the photos that I was looking at seemed ancient. Even the recent ones of Tanya at school and Kolya in the army. They appeared to me as old, because the technology of color photography didn't reach the homes of Russia until the 1990's. Yes, that is right, it wasn't a typo, 1990. The use of color film has just started to be common here in Belarus, and it is 1997. (but you will hear more about that later.) The photos that I looked at that morning changed very little from the ones that I saw that were taken in the 1950's up until those that I saw that were taken in the 1990's.