The Derevne

Long had I heard tales of the Russian деревни, or derevne, small villages of tiny houses dotted throughout the vast Russian forests. The subjects of films, books, and many jokes and sayings, they are literally pockets of concentrated Russian culture and traditions. People sing praises of the fresh air and healthy living in the derevne, but crack jokes about the Russian equivalents of "rednecks" who come from the villages. Coming from a tiny country town myself, I have been interested in them ever since arriving. After six months of living in concrete, my interest in visiting the derevne had turned into an obsession. This past weekend, I finally got to experience life in a real, Russian derevne. 

As soon as I stepped down from the small bus, I was immediately ankle deep in slushy, ice water. The tiny bus stop was completely flooded from melting snow, with bits of garbage floating around. The structure for the bus stop was falling down, covered with layers of graffiti and half buried in a garbage mound. 

"It's a shame," said my friend, whose parents we were going to visit. "People from the city come out here and just dump their garbage. There are piles of it all over the woods." We splashed to the crumbling sidewalk, which only went as far as a hole-in-the-wall store that was the only place to buy anything in the village. The tiny, rundown houses were clustered on the hill rising behind the bus stop. This was a real derevne: no beautiful, huge houses for the rich to relax at in the summer. These were homes.

We walked through the narrow winding streets, where the melting snow ran in rivers through the slush and mud. The few people we passed were dressed in mud-covered coats and boots. The fashion of the city was gone. Unlike the city, everything here was practical; cosmetic value came second. The houses were small, old concrete buildings. The falling-down fences closed off cluttered yards that would be exploding with flowers and vegetables in the summer. A babushka labored across the road, with two buckets of water in her hands. There was no running water here, people had to go get their own. A car skidded and roared by, fighting the snow. Straight lines didn't exist here, unless it was the corner of the concrete buildings. Things stuck out of every corner, anything that was straight at some point had become bent, lopsided or broken. 

The houses were small: one, maybe two, rooms. Any possessions that didn't fit in the house were gathered under makeshift shelters in the yard, or in the odd concrete garage. This was a small derevne; it ended abruptly on the edge of the incredibly vast forests. 

By the time we reached the dacha our feet were thoroughly soaked. A dog growled at us as we passed through the gate. 

"Dad loves cars," said Madina (my friend). Indeed there were many of them, maybe twenty scattered through the yard, some covered in tarps. "Only a few work," she explained. A row of sheds and animal pens stood across the lane from the house. Numerous cats were tucked away in corners, and dogs were chained in the yard. Like the rest of the houses, there were many things stored around. Some were stacked in the sheds, or covered with tarps. There was a beautiful little red sled, and an antique wagon. We splashed along to the door, opened it and ducked inside.

It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dark. There was only one window. We were in a mudroom. A few rags lay on the concrete floor. Pulling our boots off, we slipped on the warm house slippers. There was a sink in this room, with a refrigerator and a toilet tucked in the corner. There was a door behind us, which Madina explained was a bedroom. The door on the opposite end opened and a woman stepped out. 

"Hello!" she exclaimed. I greeted her in Russian. She was small, her ankles covered by her long skirt. She wore a camo vest over a sweater, and her black hair was pulled back in a bun. She didn't look Russian at all. My first impression was Kazakh, but it turns out Bella was from a small republic in the Caucasus, on the northern border of Chechnya. Wide brown eyes looked out from a perfectly round face and her smile was miles wide. She chattered along, herding Madina and me through a door into the house.

It was a nice sized room; the floor was linoleum. A pullout couch sat along one wall, faced by a cabinet and flat screen television. A small kitchen was tucked in the corner, with a microwave and small stovetop. Closets were filled with clothes, and small, leafy plants perched on the windowsill. 

"Welcome welcome!" chirped Bella, who immediately sat me down in front of a monstrous bowl of borscht. She was a lovely woman, talking all the while as we ate. Madina's young brother sat on the couch, engrossed by a game on his tablet. Anzzor was nine, and full of energy. He looked exactly like his mother, with a round face and dimples when he smiled. While I finished my soup, he came to sit next to me and showed me his school pictures. Not in least bit shy, he proudly brought his things to show them to me. 

After a while, the door opened and Madina's father ducked in. He was tall, and thin, and dressed in camo, with a fur cap perched on his head. He smiled readily through his beard, gold teeth flashing. 

"Welcome!" he said in English. Again, I said greetings in Russian. There was confusion about where I was from, as they had thought I was British. That was cleared up and it was discovered that I did actually speak Russian, and Russlan (the father) began talking, even more than Bella. He was a very interesting man; he was born in Ukraine, but had lived in the Primorye region for over thirty years. He was a military man, serving in the Navy. He had traveled the world on ships, and he spoke especially fondly of a stop in San Diego. In his earlier years he served in the military in the conflict in the Caucasus, where he met Bella. They spoke how they had both broken the traditions of their cultures in marrying each other. 

After visiting for a while, Madina, Russlan and I went on a drive. We hopped into their jeep-like vehicle, which they fondly referred to as "the tank." It was a bumpy ride, and I began to think, as we jolted along, that I should be wearing a helmet. We stopped first at an old building: large, but in poor repair. Ducking under the barbed wire fence we walked around it. It had been a house, almost a hundred years ago. This tiny village was where the engineers had lived when they designed the extensive fortress surrounding the city. Built for protection against the Japanese in the First World War, the hills and islands surrounding Vladivostok were outfitted for defense. 

We drove further, to go inside one of these bunkers. With the road blocked by snow, we went by foot, up to the top of the mountain. Madina and I followed in the footsteps punched into the snow by Russlan. The sprightly Ukrainian pranced through the snow; he knew the woods like the back of his hand. He talked the whole while about the forts: when they were used, how they were built, how big they were... 

Reaching the first fortifications, we climbed up on the concrete and could see the entire city. Along other hilltops we saw more concrete bunkers that had housed the large cannons long ago. I knew there were fortresses here, but I had no idea how extensive the system was. We were standing on top of a literal maze of concrete corridors snaking through the mountains under our feet. 

We scrambled all over the concrete, laboring through the snow down to an entrance. It was cool, and inky black inside. Using the lights on our cell phones we explored a few passages of the first floor. In this particular fort, there were eight different levels. Every once and a while, a gaping hole opened in the floor, where the second level began. The metal from the staircases had already been ripped out by scavengers. A dog barked, as we shone lights down into one of the holes. It had fallen in, and couldn't get back out. Russlan hopped down, and set off to find the dog. On his search, he found numerous other dogs, dead from the fall, or from starvation. The one living dog was skittish and it took both Madina and Russlan a long time to trap it in a jacket. Setting it loose, we once again resumed our exploration. The labyrinth of passages were worn, but in good repair. It was in no way closed off, and Madina said it is fun to have a big group come and explore all the levels, maybe do some shashlik (barbecue). 

While some of the fortresses around the city have been turned into museums, this one was not a tourist attraction in the least. It was too remote and logistically hard to reach. Even by car this was impractical. Horseback was the best mode of transport, and this family often rode on their horses to places like this. Driving back, we ran into a small accident on the road. Madina and I hopped out and continued on foot. We walked through a paintball place, which was practically in their back yard. I had heard some people playing earlier. I had almost laughed out loud, because even the paintball guns in Russia are fully automatic. 

Reaching their property we visited their six horses. They also had cows, chickens and goats. It was quite the place. We wandered between huge mounds of metal, hay and dirt to the house, where we were fed sweets and tea by Bella. 

"Madina, I really have never done this before," I said, slightly nervous. She laughed as we walked down the path to a flat spot behind the house. It was Sunday morning.

"Don't worry, it's very simple," she assured me. I was comforted, and thought I would watch how she did it, then I'd give it a go. The horse was already saddled and Russlan held the reins, grinning. We walked up with gifts of sugar and cookies. After a quick explanation of what to do, which consisted of: "sit here, hold this and don't fall off," they smiled expectantly at me.

"What, now?!" I asked, incredulous that they would expect a complete amateur to just get on a horse and ride. "I thought Madina would go first!"

"I already know how to ride!" she said. "Go on!" 

Thus, I put my foot in the stirrup, heaved myself up, and was soon sitting on the horse, the reins in my hand. The feeling was unnerving. Unlike on a bike or skis, I was not in complete control. Yes, I held the reins; but a horse is a living being, it has its own thoughts and intentions too. It was this concept that was the hardest to get over. While we went slowly in a circle in the snowy meadow I adjusted to the rhythm and movement of the horse. I found it quite fun once I got used to it. The horse was patient with my learning, but if horses could roll their eyes, he would have. 

It was an interesting experience, and I was happy to have ridden a horse. I understand now that, as with most things, it's not as easy as it looks. It was enjoyable, but I couldn't shake the uncertain factor of the horse's intentions versus mine; it was unnerving. 

Russlan came out from the house after about forty minutes, carrying a bundle. I rode over. Grinning, he held up a fur vest and cap. Putting them on me, he then help up a scabbard. He drew the sword and handed it to me. It weighed heavily in my hand.

"This is the traditional Cossack costume," he explained. "There is an old tradition, that if ever a woman put on this cap or coat, they would be whipped three times." 

We returned to the house for a hearty dinner and then tea. Bella loved to talk, so we talked for ages.

"But why is Madina in this school (the Asian-European Lyceum we attend)?" I asked.

"She needs a good education. Honest people rarely get rich. In order to do well in life, one needs a good education. One needs to be smart, clever," she explained. She went on to talk about her homeland later in the conversation. 

"It is very warm there, the winter is maybe -5 degrees (celsius). It's not like here; here there is fog, lots of snow and always rain in the Spring. I remember when I walked to school every day, I could just pick fruit off the trees along the road. Pears, apples and plums, all within arm's reach. By the time I got to school I was full! It is so beautiful there, not at all like here," she recounted. 

"And your family, where are they?" I asked.

"There. All of them are there. Papa, mama died nine years ago, brothers and sisters, they are all there," she said. "We go visit there almost every summer." 

"Do you want to go back one day, for good?" I asked. She paused and laughed a bit, looking away.

"Maybe one day, when I am old I will go back," she trailed off, laughing, but her thoughts of home lingered on her face. 

While we drank another round of tea, Russlan brought out of a cabinet a pile of dusty photos. What an absolute treasure trove they were. From childhood, photos of him and his sister, to ones with Madina and Anzzor. The earliest ones were in black and white, when he was a young man. Photos from his travels to India were full of sculpted temples, crowded markets and ornately decorated elephants. The photos turned to color, showing him working communications systems in a submarine, and holding up monstrous Kamchatka crab on a fishing trip. He fondly reminisced of San Diego as I looked through the photos of his time there. A post card of the Coronado Bay Bridge in San Diego, and photos of him with friends on the beach. He had been there on a friendship visit, and he was pictured at concerts, dinners and ceremonies. In one photo he grinned from underneath a fur cap in front of St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow. In another, he was on horseback at their farm. 

However, the most intriguing photos were small, Polaroid photos, glued to pieces of paper. They were from his time fighting in Chechnya. One showed a group of men, dressed in green camo, sitting around a low table; a beautiful red and gold carpet hung on the wall behind them. Bottles of vodka stood half empty on the table, with plates of cheese and meat. The men smiled, some holding large knives in their teeth, or cradling Kalashnikovs on their laps. In another photo, Russlan perched with friends on a tank on a mountain road. The other photos were of them resting in the shade of rocks or drinking vodka in their tents. The Chechen countryside was beautiful, the mountains churning like waves of the sea. They were dramatic photos. Russlan never commented on them. 

Anzzor trotted in then, his friend in tow. His friend presented a plate of blini made by his grandmother to Bella. The sun was going down, and the boiling kettle gurgled. As the two boys wrestled on the floor, we gathered around the table for another cup of tea. The cool night air settled in, but did not seep into the warmth of the dacha.