The Dacha (Holiday House)

In Russia (and all over the former Soviet Union, people tend to spend summer weekends in their holiday homes, known as dachas.

My uncle Yura takes me to the family dacha which my grandfather built in the 1970s. I’m reminded of my mum’s passion for photography; she loved taking photos when we were young, she loved taking photos when I cried, she loved taking photos when I was naked and she loved taking photos when I was on the potty. She has one photo of me naked, on the potty, crying.

The dacha is located in Fryazevo (Фрязево), the train fare isn’t expensive, so I buy the ticket, but to get the full Russian experience, I won’t buy a ticket on the return trip. If you ever get a chance to ride on a local train in Moscow, I highly recommend it for this one experience alone.

At some point in the trip, a group of thirty passengers walks through the carriage and into the next one. Following this procession, roughly half of the people sitting in the carriage stand up and follow them. My uncle tells me that the ticket inspectors are coming.

The inspectors come through, checking everyone’s tickets and proceed to the next carriage. The train pulls into a station and there is a mass exodus of passengers, the entire mob of people without tickets runs off the train, runs along the platform back past the ticket inspector, hops into our carriage, takes a seat as if nothing happened and continues the journey. The ticket inspectors don’t even bat an eyelid as they see the mob run past.

Another mob of passengers without tickets hopping back onto the train after running past inspectors.

Platfrom 1, away from Moscow. Don’t stand on the edge of the platform. Dangerous for your life!

We arrive at Fryazevo and need to take the steps up to cross over the platform to exit the station. My uncle is on crutches, there is no lift, there are too many steps for him to climb so instead, he says we’ll be walking across the train tracks.

There’s an exit at the station for those without a ticket (in fact all stations have one), all we need to do is follow the people that climb down across the tracks, they walk to the fence and climb through the hole (that will be my way into the platform on the return trip).

My uncle crossing the train tracks mere metres from a train. He’s so hardcore. The train engine is off.

We walk the four kilometres to the dacha, passing the lake where my sister and I would splash around in our innocent youth.

The dacha, in all its glory, hand built by my grandfather Ivan Ivanovich Mikheev, with some help from my uncle Yura Ivanovich Mikheev.

The dacha is overgrown with weeds, rosehip and berries. The apple trees have given a huge harvest and we have more than we know what to do with. My uncle checks for the keys to the dacha and finds that he’s left them at home.

Me: What do we do?

Yura: We can sit on the step and drink vodka, then go home.

Me: We came all the way here, we’re getting in.

Yura: Ok, get the ladder.

I get the ladder and we decide to go in through the second storey window, only my uncle refuses to let me climb saying it’s too dangerous. I watch as he nimbly climbs on the roof (as the balcony sags under his weight) as he opens the window and climbs in. After many noises, he opens a window on the first floor which will now act as the door.

The second storey of the dacha. We have plenty of beds and blankets so decide to brave the cold and spend the night. There is no central heating here and the night will be –6.

Next step, finding warm clothes. What isn’t visible is the two layers of brightly coloured, home knitted sweaters under my jacket, typical dacha clothes found in every dacha. The hat is warm, I think it was my mums. In dacha, it’s ok to wear women’s hats.

It’s coming up to dinner time, so we need to get to work on dinner. I head to the kitchen and spend the next half hour lighting a fire, lack of dry firewood makes it difficult. Dinner consists of a soup that even my mum would be proud of, baked apples and a little something to wash it down with.

The kitchen, soup in the pot, home made tea in the kettle. Rosehip and berry leaves make for the best tea.

There’s a fridge but we forgot to stock it up with food (some ten years ago).

Since we have no front door and have to climb through the window, I tend to carry most of the things in and out of the house. My uncle however is quite skilled at climbing, despite his obvious disability.

Since uncle Yura doesn’t need my help getting in the window, I’m sure he won’t mind I snap a photo while he climbs in.

After a great night with many stories, and not all that cold, we head home (after first snapping a collection of photos of the neighbouring dachas).

The trip back, I don’t have a ticket. When the inspector comes to check tickets, I join the mob in walking down the carriages. When we arrive at the next station, we all get off and run down the platform, past the inspector and into the wagon. Shortly after, I rejoin my uncle. When we arrive back in Moscow, I jump down and leave the platform through the hole in the fence (remember, every station has one).

My sister visited the dacha in summer of the previous year and wrote about her dacha experience on her blog.

Dachas come in all shapes, sizes and colours. Here is a small sample of the neighbouring dachas. For more on Russian dachas, see the wikipedia article.