A Nation of Plotters

Dachas (summer houses) are a concept held dear by most Russians — 80% of
the population has a dacha, and Russians put them third on their list of material
priorities, behind apartments and cars. Yelena Utenkova takes a detailed look
at the history and role of the dacha in Russian society.

If you ask Russians about their dachas, the chances are you will get a wide variety of descriptions in reply. A ‘New Russian’s’ dacha would be a four-story villa in a pine grove. For less affluent Russians, it would be a half-abandoned cottage in a remote village. Still others would call a tiny potato patch their ‘dacha.’ But whichever definition fits best, they all have one thing in common — Russians spend most of their summer months there.

From Cherry Orchard to Kitchen Garden

Centuries ago the word dacha (from davat — to give) was used in Russia to describe a plot of state land leased to a monastery or a major landowner. Later, at the end of the 19th century, other kinds of dachas appeared after impoverished landlords were forced to carve up their lands and sell small lots to housing developers. Anton Chekhov’s play The Cherry Orchard clearly shows the sufferings of the mistress of an estate as she realizes her lovely cherry orchard is in danger of being turned into a housing project.

Homes that replaced these woods and orchards were offered for rent in the summer, a boon for middle-class city residents who could not afford to maintain estates of their own but who wanted to spend at least a couple of months a year in the country. And because these new summer residents loved nature and scenery, new orchards soon replaced the old ones.

Relaxing at the dacha used to be almost as comme il faut as in the West. In pre-revolutionary Russia, it was considered stylish to rent a summer house somewhere in Finland, though some opted for the Crimea or Caucasus.

Summer residents in those days included many members of the creative intelligentsia, who sought an escape from the noise and bustle of big cities. Understandably, these new dacha settlements lacked the dull sleepy provinciality of remote regions. Cozy chats around the samovar in the shade of century-old trees, horse and bicycle rides, trips to the woods to pick mushrooms and berries and amateur theater all fostered creative thinking.

The ‘Silver Age’ of the Arts in Russia was born of traditions established by these old-style dacha dwellers. It was at their dachas that the distinguished artist Isaac Levitan painted his celebrated landscapes, Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetayeva wrote poetry, and Alexander Benois made theater costumes. In many of Chekhov’s short stories, the action takes place at somebody’s dacha.

Eighty years on, the old dacha lifestyle is gaining ground again rapidly. Fashion designers have been making collections titled Dachniki(dacha dwellers) and Maxim Gorky’s play of the same name is currently showing at as many as five drama theaters in Moscow.

But the transition of dacha culture from the Silver Age to the present day has been far from smooth.

For one, following the 1917 Bolshevik revolution, everything in Russia became common property. Naturally, public servants, merchants and servicemen lost their summer houses. However, scientists, writers and artists, whom the Soviet regime badly needed at first, kept the privilege of spending the summer months at their dachas. The new rulers rightly believed that rural quiet would help these people work effectively.

In the late 1920s, new compounds of dachas began to be built for men of letters and arts. It was at this time that the writers’ colony at Peredelkino settlement came into existence, with almost all noted Soviet writers getting dachas there. A dacha in Peredelkino became the ultimate status symbol for writers, so sought-after that many resorted to intrigues and sycophancy to get one.

As for the larger dachas abandoned by their owners after the revolution, some were converted to children’s homes. Most, however, were appropriated for life by the new elite — Party officials, top-ranking military and secret police officers. Admittedly, many of the new owners had little time to enjoy the perquisites of the Soviet regime: some were even sent directly to prison or labor camps from their dachas. On each occasion, new residents would take over the vacated dachas, some houses changing hands dozens of times in the worst years of repression.

Soviet leaders, meanwhile, never neglected their right to rest. While Stalin was in power, tightly fenced enclosures, patrolled by guards and ferocious Alsatians appeared outside Moscow, and behind them, dachas of the country’s top officials. Stalin’s Kuntsevo residence, for example, a model for all state dachas built in those years, was a two-story structure devoid of any architectural embellishments, though it did feature a roof solarium and a winter garden on the porch. ‘Uncle Joe’ liked his ordinariness to be emphasized, but he was known not to like mixing with the rank-and-file and was protected securely.

The best thing about state dachas was their surroundings. They were generally located on large plots of land with beautiful woods, orchards, and ponds full of mirror carp. For decades, that splendor was appreciated by a select few — the owner’s family, attendants, and security personnel. Outsiders would not even dare venture into these paradises, because in the grim years of Stalin’s rule, trespassing in a ‘security zone’ would easily warrant a few years in a labor camp. One unfortunate young man who poached carp in the enclosure of Stalin’s henchman Kliment Voroshilov got three years in exile for ‘engaging in anti-Soviet activity.’

Despite prolonged and intensive attempts to instill communist values across the country, Soviet people never stopped being property-owners at heart, and one way or another they sought pieces of land for themselves. The Soviet government gave out plots but kept an eye out to make sure the new landowners did not get too rich. Numerous rules and constraints stipulated what and how to build, what to grow, and in what amounts. Construction limitations (the roof’s peak, for instance, had to be no higher than five meters above ground level) could be explained by fire regulations, but there was no obvious reason for the rules banning poultry- and rabbit-breeding, or the planting of more than ten blackcurrant bushes. All these bans were clearly designed to prevent the rise of capitalists or kulaks, and were lifted only at the end of the 1980s.

When you think of the lackluster way ordinary Soviet people used to work in factories or offices, you could easily conclude that Russians are naturally lazy. But this theory is debunked when you consider how heroically dacha residents till their plots. They spare no effort in digging, cultivating and fertilizing the land, or building huts and cottages. They grow anything from rare vegetables to exotic bushes. In comparison, neighboring collective farmers were continually confronted with bad harvests.

In fact, local villagers had never particularly liked the arrogant dachniki who came to settle in their neighborhoods. Besides, rural areas used to be (and often still are) poorly supplied with staples, so the villagers were rightly resentful when the same dachniki bought up all the bread delivered to the local store.

Over the years, Party dachas became more and more like palaces, while ordinary mortals were allocated ‘six hundredths’ (0.06 hectare — 0.15 acre — plots). This tiny patch of land became the norm in a nation occupying one-sixth of the earth’s land surface. But people still rushed to grab them, even though they were often located on useless land — like marshes, or wetlands covered with thick bushes. For many, dachas became a kind of safety-valve, or place where they could take a break from the dull daily routine of the workplace and, most importantly, see the results of their own labors.

Ironically, even these paltry pieces of land were hard to come by. People would have to wait for years for their ‘six-hundredths.’ To jump the line, you had to be a recipient of a government award, have ten children or just have the right connections.

There was always another option — to buy a house in some far-off abandoned village whose residents had migrated to a nearby town. Such houses were very cheap (even today you can find ones for just $500 in Russia’s remoter regions), but there was always the obstacle of the propiska (residence permit). The buyer had to register with the local authorities, who normally disliked granting permits to people unwilling to live in the village all year round. So, either the local collective farm manager’s palm would have to be greased, or else your elderly parents would have to be moved into the new house on a permanent basis.

Dacha-related problems did not end with the acquisition of a garden plot. In the last years of the Soviet Union, there was an acute shortage of building materials. Lines were months long, and could only be shortened by bribing. Some resourceful dacha residents used empty bottles or wooden posting boards with slogans like ‘Glory to the CPSU’ written on them to build their huts. Such curiosities can still be seen in dacha settlements around Moscow.

Reform in the former Soviet Union left the store shelves bare. In fear of going hungry, people turned to their plots for the basic essentials. That was when the booming dacha construction industry began. With the land law then still somewhat confused, some cities resolved to give away sizeable plots of land for free. City residents did not hesitate to take what they could, even though many plots were not arable or too far from city limits.

Plots granted in keeping with existing rules were clearly not enough to satisfy demand, so people just seized empty strips of land outside Moscow and turned them into kitchen gardens. For example, in the late 1980s along Moscow’s outer ring road, scores of tiny, pathetic plots appeared, with wire fencing and plywood huts that looked just like hen-coops. But that is all history. As soon as people realized the true value of this polluted land, they were quick to turn it to other uses — now garages stand where five years ago elderly Russians tended their carrots and parsley.

In the years of the booming dacha business, dacha residents have turned into kitchen gardeners, planting as many vegetables and fruit as their plots allow. The most enterprising have started (legally or illegally) hothouse plant, seed and seedling businesses. A sign of the times is the emergence of numerous firms selling ‘the world’s best’ varieties of tomatoes and cucumbers, as well as ‘rare’ seedlings, like what one vendor claimed was a cross-breed between a peach and a blackthorn, supposedly growable even in the Far North. Avid gardeners would buy such seedlings and lovingly plant them, only to find an ordinary birch tree or bird cherry growing from them.

All things considered, you can’t grow cherry orchards on ‘six hundredths’ plots. But today’s dacha people seem focused elsewhere, planting proven and dependable vegetables like potatoes.

Dachnik: a Heroic Vocation

For Russians, the gardening season is mid-May through mid-September. At this time, large cities are regularly deserted as people dash out to their plots. Highways have traffic jams stretching for miles, and no one could wish upon even their worst enemy a ride in a suburban train on Saturday morning or Sunday evening. Station platforms at this time look rather like battle scenes, with the inexperienced running the risk of being trampled underfoot by eager gardeners with hand-carts full of tomato seedlings.

‘Six hundredths’ owners are for the most part not an affluent breed. All year round they have to improvise, racking their brains over what to build and plant at their dachas next season. In spring, you can easily tell a summer gardener’s city apartment by the rows of seedlings in soil-filled milk cartons, neatly arranged on the window sills. In summer, he is easily recognizable in a crowd because of his huge backpack, his armful of greens from the plot, and a sunburnt look, combined with exhaustion and satisfaction.

“I wish it were never there in the first place”, said a young engineer of his dacha, “you can’t afford to go anywhere in the summer, neither to a spa nor to visit your relatives: you just spend all your time digging your own kitchen garden.”

“But don’t forget how you love lapping up that strawberry jam in the winter!” retorted his wife angrily.

As winter sets in, the summer gardener starts to worry about the security of his out-of-town possessions: deserted dacha settlements become highly vulnerable to regular thieves and vandals despite the fact that most have no valuables. One desperate summer gardener left the following message on his hut’s door:

“Dear thieves! You are requested not to break in. The door is open, and there’s nothing inside anyway.”

When he came back next spring, he opened his door to discover a whole pile of things on the floor, and another message which read, “We’ve had your place checked out, and you’re absolutely right. So we brought you a few things.”

All in all, dachas create a whole host of problems. At the same time, to be quite honest, there’s little money to be made from them. So, what do ordinary Russians have to say about the dacha craze?

“You can’t keep kids in town in the summer,” said Irina Semyonovna, a 56-year-old pensioner. “Out at the dacha it’s fun. Nice scenery, fresh air.”

“As I dig my vegetable garden I forget all about my problems. I just relax there,” said Alexei, 36.

However, the main thing in favor of dachas is this — it’s something to pass on to your grandchildren. Under the provisions of the recently-approved Russian Land Code, summer garden plots are considered the property of their holders, and can be passed on to heirs.

The Money Factor

A dacha in the Moscow area is a sound investment indeed, providing it is close enough to the city. According to Alexei Vulykh, Vice President of the Moskoviya Real Estate company, “the land within the 50-kilometer zone of the Moscow ring road sells at $1000-plus per hundredth of a hectare and undeveloped lots are not so easy to come by. Most feature super-costly suburban villas which nonetheless get bought up pretty quickly. Each month we sell a few $1 million-plus villas, all of which fully meet West European standards — with several levels, a garage, swimming pool, assorted bathrooms and washrooms, a Finnish sauna and a tennis court.”

In recent years, numerous new dacha villages have grown up around the nation’s large cities, populated by the so-called New Russians. Though generally larger and more extravagant than even the old Communist Party dachas, they often look out of style and even vulgar — huge red-brick mansions with dull-looking slate roofs.

Sergei, who works for a company which installs swimming pools at New Russians’ villas, noted: “Each year, in the Moscow Region we install just under a hundred swimming pools, almost every second in marble. What’s more, now and again we’re commissioned to redo recently installed swimming pools completely. The luxury at those villas is simply unnerving. Sometimes you get two television sets to a room in a twenty-room villa, and a bathroom faced with malachite.”

Only New Russians can afford this kind of thing, and they are pretty finicky customers, too, demanding top-of-the-line security, good infrastructure and attractive natural surroundings. They are especially particular about neighbors. The greatest demand is for plots located in the old settlements of the scientific community, among academics, or in the new compounds among their own class.

The Uspenskoye Highway near Moscow is broadly perceived as the local Beverly Hills, entirely taken up by the country residences of the former Party elite, high-ranking government officials and some top businessmen. This a unique spot in the environs of Moscow, totally unlike the rest of suburbia, with its concrete blocks and smokestacks.

Uspenskoye Highway (Uspenka for short) caught the eye of the Soviet leadership as far back as the 1930s, when Stalin’s dacha appeared in the neighborhood. Top NKVD (secret police) officials chose the village of Zhukovka nearby. All the local ‘undesirables’ were cleared out, and their houses demolished to make way for the new villas. The adjacent estate of Barvikha, built like a medieval castle (a rare sight in the suburbs of Moscow), was in 1935 converted into a Soviet government sanatorium. It was attended at various times by the likes of writer Mikhail Bulgakov and cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin.

In the 1950s and 1960s, more settlements grew up along Uspenka to accommodate staff of the Communist Party Central Committee and Soviet government. Furthermore, Uspenka’s picturesque surroundings have been complemented by perfectly maintained roads, guarded today by the OMON (specialized militia units). The Highway proper is controlled by traffic militia patrols every 500 meters.

The pleasure of living in this locality is a highly expensive one, with a hundredth costing $14-18,000, and a house $2,000+ per square meter of overall floor surface. Renting a decent cottage at Uspenka would cost in the area of $1,500-2,000 per month, according to an employee of estate agents Status. You would be charged twice as much for the privilege of renting among academics, who try to improve their shaky finances at the expense of New Russians. Leasing a villa at Serebryany Bor, a pretty lake land within Moscow’s borders, would cost you $10-12,000 per month.

This is hardly a pursuit for the new middle class, who prefer to look abroad. When asked what his plans were for the summer, one bank employee said he would rather travel to Spain with his family and rent a $200-300 per month villa there for the entire season, clearly much more affordable than a luxury dacha outside Moscow.

Government officials from the perestroika era, on the other hand, have been able to use the built-in advantages of the state. Making the right moves at the right time, some of the more ‘enterprising’ had their state dachas privatized, and made huge amounts of money. A few years ago, there was a major scandal in the Russian media about a former Soviet prime minister who was believed to have privatized his luxurious state dacha for just a few thousand rubles by bribing a surveyor. Nonetheless, neither he nor others that did likewise were brought to justice.

Other underhanded schemes include military top brass buying construction materials at ridiculously low prices from armed service stocks, and using draftees under their command to build their dachas for free.

Anyone who earns $1,000 a month can now afford to build a decent dacha, though it might have to be on less expensive land further away from Moscow. A hectare (2.5 acres) in Oryol Region south of Moscow can be had for a mere R400,000 ($80).

New construction techniques make dacha projects nowadays much cheaper. For example, the use of polystyrene foam building blocks instead of brick and stone cuts construction costs by a factor of almost four, and dachas can be built this way in just a few hours. These advanced construction materials are produced by firms like the Radoslav Russian-American joint venture, which deals both with New Russians and the middle class.

“Housing construction is a most lucrative business in Russia today,” said joint venture Director Maxim Sovko. “Each year hundreds of dachas appear around Moscow, and we certainly can’t complain of our products selling poorly”.

He went on to say that both the lowest-priced ($5,000) and the highest-priced ($50,000+) dachas appear to be selling equally well, an indication that most segments of the Russian population are at last fulfilling their material desires, and finding their place among the propertied classes.