As you may have picked up, life as of late has been a bit rough over here on my side of the pond. In an attempt to find some solace from the discomfort that has been my nine to five, I have been wracking my brain looking for answers. Years ago, when contemplating what I wanted to “do when I grow up,” I used to attempt to translate my passions and interests into a career. In discussing the possibilities of my life with my dad, we often butted heads. I wanted to do something that I love, he informed me that this might be a problem, as what I love may become what I hate. He has frequently told me that work is called ‘work’ for a reason. It is not supposed to be fun. It is work. Frankly, I am pretty sure that I still disagree with him on this issue. However, it is now clear to me that even if my work allows me to do something that I generally love and am passionate about, it will still be work. It will, for the most part, not be fun.

Coming to this realization, I think that I am currently in the process of learning a very valuable lesson. Work is work; it is not my life. Life is life; work is what I do so that I can live the rest of my life. I am trying to remember this as I trudge through that middle portion of my day. When I am not in said middle portion, I am trying to live.

How do we live?

We wear shorts and flip-flops. We drink beer on the street. We dig in the dirt.

Much to my chagrin, I am told that I ‘grew-up on a farm.’ What is a farm? I have asked myself this question countless times. I still do not have an answer. Regardless, I am pretty sure that I grew-up on one. There were fields, there were animals, there were tractors, and I was good friends with this kid my dad likes to call ‘Manual Labor.’ These days, being good friends with Mr. Labor is not terribly common in the good old U.S. of A.. It seems that as we move further and further into a technological and consumer driven society, our relationship with Manual is becoming ever more commonly neglected. Well, here in Mother Russia, generally speaking, we still have a very loving, nitty, and gritty relationship with said Manual Labor. In fact, without Manual, the bulk of the folks around here would struggle to survive.

According to the International Monetary Fund the gross national income, adjusted for purchasing power parity (as in, the amount seen here buys the same goods in Russia as it would where you are living), in the Russian Federation is 9,660 USD per person per year. Now, consider that Russia is home to more billionaires than any other country in the world (that brings a large sway to the numbers), and think what the ‘typical’ Russian is living on. The minimum subsistence wage (i.e. The minimum wage necessary to live. Period. As in, put a roof over your head, not starve to death, and clothe yourself) in Russia is 4,630 rubles (148 USD) per month per person. According to the World Bank, 13.5% of the Russian population, that is 19 million people, cannot adequately feed, clothe, and house themselves. Twenty-five percent of the population (35 million people) are highly vulnerable to falling below this level of subsistence. The poverty line here in the Russian Federation is 1,056 rubles per person per day. That amounts to 34 USD a day, 1,054 USD a month, 12, 648 USD per year. The highest paid person I have yet to meet here in the lovely Russia makes 25,000 rubles per month. She makes 798 dollars per month, 9,576 USD per year. The highest paid individual that I have ever met in Russia lives below the poverty line. Given this state of affairs, finding other avenues to support oneself are key to the survival of the typical Russian.

Thus, we have the dacha.

What is a dacha, you ask? A dacha is a patch of dirt. A dacha is typically found amidst hundreds of other patches of dirt in a massive field located outside a Russian city. To call it a field, generally, would be too much. Really, it is more like a garden. This little garden, is how many Russians survive as they live day in and day out below the poverty line. This patch of dirt, this little bit of land that allows one to grow and subsequently can vegetables is often the difference between a life that is seemingly normal and one that straddles sustainability. Not everyone has a dacha; some people share dachas; others have family members that live outside the city, lending them a bit of dirt.

I love dirt. I have loved dirt since I was a small child. Even better than dirt… digging in the dirt. Imagine the excitement that I encountered when told that it was time to go to work. In the dirt. Katya’s (the roommate’s) parents live in a village 30 minutes outside of Volgodonsk. In many regards, her family has become my family. Thus, when the kids are called in to work, I am included in the pool. When informing me that mama demanded our muscles on Friday after work, Katya was apologetic, informing me that she was well aware that I would be of no help, but that I should at least show up and ‘act like I am doing something.’ In response, I said something along the lines of, ‘Are you kidding me?! I love dirt! It will be just like home! Oh, I am so happy, just thinking about it.’ She laughed and said something along the lines of, ‘Um, I am pretty sure you are going to be useless. It is hard work. It is dirty. You cannot do this work.’ I said flippantly, ‘Are you serious?’ She said, ‘You get that we don’t have a tractor, right?’ I said, approaching insulted, ‘Do you think that I got this strong from sitting on a tractor?! I am a great helper!’ Stiffling her giggle, she said, ‘Yeah, I don’t believe it, but we will see.’ I said, ‘Uh huh, you will see.’

Apparently, it was a big joke with the whole family. It would seem that the Americans have left a less than flattering impression on these Russians. I let them laugh, as I told Katya, that if she wanted, she could just sit back and relax with mama while I did all of the work. It was the topic of humor for the week. Then, Friday came. I worked my middle of the day 9-5, grabbed the kid (otherwise known as Sam the dog), and hopped a marshrutka to the less populated, more dirt-abundant, village of Romanovskaya.

After a stern conversation with mama and papa in which I was informed that I would not be wearing my new white Converse All-Stars in the dirt, I rolled up my pants, laughed in the face of the gloves that were offered to me, hit the dirt with my bare feets, and quickly left the other helper (Miss I am Better at Digging in the Dirt than You) in the dust. After approximately 20 minutes and one ‘I am tired and need a break’ breaks from Katya, she decided that it would be a better use of her time to just hand me the tomato plants as Manual Labor and I were spending quality time together.

The fruits of my labor will not be ripe for the picking until August. However, I got just what I wanted out of the evening. I lived. I was not at work, and it was fantastic. I informed mama with a smile that I would be quitting my job and moving to the back yard. She told me that the next time she needs help, I can bring Katya if I want to, but if I don’t feel like bringing her, it would be alright if I leave her at home. Being a part of a family is the greatest feeling. Being part of something that is necessary for survival is endlessly rewarding. Proving Katya wrong is priceless, and digging in the dirt is the best sort of therapy.

Thus, life will be life, work will be work, and I will dig in the dirt again on Tuesday.

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